Nativity

Indian summer
in December
with forsythia forcing out
bursting yellow buds
throwing pollen
into the air
into my nose.
And we sleep
with windows open
promising ourselves the will-power
to not turn on the
air-conditioning.
shoving the down
back into the closet
and recovering
our thin quilts with
grandmother stitching

But sometimes
we still wake up
drenched in sweat
with our hair clinging
to the backs of our necks
and a line of
dampness across
my waist where
your arm
finally came to rest
last night.
and through the
spring morning fog
you notice
we always wake up
before the neighbors
across the street
with dark windows
and faintly gleaming
plastic religion
on the front lawn.

"Look baby. . . "
you begin, knowing
I do well to hear
half your words
in my own
spring morning fog,
but I flicker
my eyelids. movement
like a faint breath
on a candle flame
and you take the cue
to continue.
"Their savior ;
he has dew on
his little molded forehead"
And I mutter
I've always preferred
my salvation
covered in frost

poetry

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